


Refracting Outward, Reflecting Inward

by LockedBox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demon/Spirit Shenanigans, Demonic Telepathy, Desire Demon!Dorian, Deviates From Canon, Dorian is still Dorian, Epic Dorian & Cole & Solas friendship, Fade Shenanigans, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possession, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Some references to Major Character Death (but not really), The Power Of Love, but not really, identity crisis, slow burning romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LockedBox/pseuds/LockedBox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has been many things. </p><p>Beloved son. Trusted friend. Esteemed heir to house Pavus. Disappointment. Aberration. Abomination. Pariah. Everyone knows his story, it seems, but what they don’t know, is that there was a time before he had been Dorian, a time before he had even been human. </p><p>He was Desire, lust and craving. He was a mirror, the slaker of thirst, the fulfiller of the even the most unattainable fantasy.  But that wasn’t enough. The life of a demon was an empty one. For aeons, he had longed for the world across the veil and now he had finally made it, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a blighted magister ruin everything he had worked so hard for. </p><p>If, along the way, Desire makes way for something else, well, he’ll burn that bridge when it's crossed. It is not as if he has anything left to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bargain

 

He has been many things, in the past.  


 

When he wandered through the dreams of mortals, twisting and shaping the Fade, rollicking in it. He was their mirror. He gathered their dreams up around him, and shaped himself in their image, becoming that which they coveted, and offered himself to them, if only for a night. Seldom did they realise that that he was anything more a pleasant conjuration of their dreamscape. Some did, of course, such was inevitable. Then they would either cower in fear, or they would warp their dreams against him, driving him out.

 

Neither were pleasant experiences, but he thought little of it, and left them to their dreaming. He would not stay where he was not wanted. It wasn’t in his nature.

 

When he touched the minds of the magi, he was freedom and power. He whispered to them, offering their truest desire, that to be free, and the power they would need to attain that freedom. Sometimes, they wanted to forget, and he was happy oblige them that. He would twist the Fade around himself, become that which they longed for, lusted for, and took their minds away from their troubles, with his magic and his borrowed form. Sometimes, he taught them secrets, of forbidden magic and secret rituals. Sometimes, he stayed, and he listened, as they schemed and they plotted, and when the time came, he reached to the veil, and he held the sleepers in their dreams as they made their flight. In return, he sipped from their strength, growing strong off lyrium and magic, and took their memories for his own.

 

He liked the memories of the waking world. It seemed such a strange place, so, fixed. The world beyond the veil could not be warped. Could not be twisted or shaped. It just, was. It fascinated him. Often times, he’d dip into the dreams of mortals, and wonder what it would be like to truly live in such a world.

 

The Fade was malleable, and like him, it was a mirror. It reflected the world beyond the veil, but it could never truly _be_. It was always twisting, shaping, changing, reflecting those that looked in. There was a great freedom in that, but also, a great sense of restlessness, ungroundedness. He knew that feeling well, and he grew older he knew the feeling more and more.

 

He did not like it.

 

He wondered sometimes, what it would be like to be part of the unrelenting world beyond the veil. What it would like to be so unrelenting in the face of his onlookers, not just a convincing imitation, a warped reflection, a substitute, but something _real_? He did not know. But he wanted to. Oh, did he want to.

 

He longed for the world beyond the veil, wanted it for his own, wanted to be a part of it. He wanted, he did not know what, but he wanted to be something real. Something true, and unchanging. Something transcendent.

 

The desire ached in him, through his bones, through his magic, rippling through the Fade around him. Outward, and inward, til it consumed him.

 

It was dangerous to desire. He knew that more than any other creature, mortal or spirit or demon. To desire was weakness, an opening to be exploited and warped and manipulated. To desire was to be disappointed. To desire was to suffer a hunger that would never be sated. But he desired, oh, did he desire.

 

It was that desire, that drew him to the dragons den.

 

The fade did not have a landscape, the way that the world beyond the veil did, but it had layers. Places that touched parts of the waking world more closely than elsewhere, places where the veil was thin, so thin that the world beyond could be all but touched, and places where the worlds did not touch at all.

 

There was a place, where the veil was worn thin, and he could look out upon the Tevinter Imperium. Even the spirits of the Fade knew of the Tevinter Imperium. It was the place for the magi, the dreamers, the defilers. The men who pierced the veil, and marched upon the black city. The men who squabbled and bargained and bled. There were many such as him, gathered there. Hunting the glut of foolish, arrogant, mages.

 

But he was not here to hunt. Feed, definitely, but demons such as him had no need to hunt their quarry. He needed only to wait.

 

There were mortals here, who reached into the veil, even knowing the danger, and bridged over it, through it, drawing his kind out.

 

He wanted out. They wanted his power, his secrets, his clever tongue.

 

A bargain could be made, would be made, he was only waiting for the right offer.

 

He flitted through the dreams of the magisters, for a time, testing the waters and growing wistful from the memories he swallowed up. Tevinter seemed a fascinating place, it’s histories rich and long, its people passionate. The Fade was thick with spirits, memories of people long forgotten, ghosts of days long since past, and he spent aeons rollicking through the fades long memory, drinking up the histories like sweet summer wine.

 

He wanted Tevinter. Wanted the Tevinter from across the veil, wanted to touch it and roll in it. Have it for his own. Become a part of the unrelenting match of history, of time. Become a part of something real and true.

 

Finally, after years of waiting, of lurking through the Fade like a circling shark, the offer was made.

 

The magister was an impolite one. Hadn’t even the decency to approach him in the Fade, or even invite him to a harrowing. Instead he had plucked him out from it with a summoning circle, quite without ceremony, and plonked him into the world beyond the Veil. He appeared in a circle, drawn in blood on the surface of an onyx altar, the bodies of dead slaves around them, the magister alight with magic.

 

The weight of the world beyond the Fade, of Tevinter, was immense. It was like being plunged into cold water, the way that the Fade just, fell apart from around him, replaced by this irrepressible, unchangeable _thing_.

 

It was terrifying.

 

It was wonderful.

 

He wanted _more_.

 

“Demon. I have summoned you here, to strike a bargain with you.” The magister spoke, his hands were steady, a ceremonial knife in one hand, his staff in the other, but his voice trembled.

 

He peered into his head, riffling through the surface layers of stress and agitation, the transient desires for sleep and sustenance, for his transgressions to go unnoticed, and found the true desires lurking at the heart of him.

 

He desired a legacy. A child to mould and to protect. A person to whom his generations of knowledge and power might be passed down, and whom would lift them up ever higher with the passing of time, cementing them in history.

 

He held the desire close, and let his countenance ripple outward, reflecting. He took the man’s face, and made it his own. Dressed himself in the robes of the archon, and let the vestiges of the fade ripple around him, glowing with power.

 

“Desiderium tuum est praeceptum meum, Magister Pavus,” he said, the Tevene thick and sweet as honey, and he bowed low, his head tilted up, a smile on his lips.

 

The magister gasped, his eyes widening at the form he had taken, and now, his hands shook.

 

“As it should be. For many years, my Wife and I have tried to conceive an heir. While she conceived, the children did not survive till birth, until now. My Dorian, he grows weaker by the day, and despite all I have done, I fear he shall not survive much longer. What, do you want of me? What shall it cost me, to ensure he survives?” he asked, straightening his back and driving the butt of his staff into the flagstones with a dramatic clap.

 

He peered down, and noticed the bassinet before him, placed between the magister and the altar, elaborate runes and spell circles woven around it, to protect it, though they did little good against one openly invited, such as he.

 

The babe within was deep in slumber. He was pale and gaunt, his eyes sunken and cheeks unnaturally sallow, lacking the chubbiness of a healthy baby. He was perhaps a year old, at most, but he was so small and frail, he could have easily been mistaken for babe at least half that age.

 

He peered into his head, and to his dismay, found nothing.

 

The babe was dead.

 

Oh he looked alive, to be sure. His chest moved up and down with shallow breaths, his heart beat steadily, but that was through no vocation of his own. Magister Pavus had swaddled the babe in enchantments and bloodmagic, he had spelled his heart to beat, enchanted his lungs to breathe, but that had not kept the poor babe from dying. He knew, for there was no soul there, no spirit, no dreams or desires, not even the most base desire for shelter, sustenance or affection. The babe was well and truly dead, if it had ever been truly alive. Magister Pavus had only prolonged its half existence through his desperate measures.

 

Dorian was little more than a very realistic golem, now.

 

There was no forbidden magic, no secret ritual that might bring this babe back from the dead. Certainly, he could make it look alive, make it cry and wail for milk, make it laugh and giggle when bounced and tickled, but it wouldn’t be real, if anything, he’d be puling on the strings of a puppet, making it dance for a while, and that was not what Magister Pavus wanted.

 

Magister Pavus wanted a son, wanted a legacy, wanted an heir.

 

He wanted to journey across the veil.

 

He smiled, and made up his mind. He knew, now, what price he would ask.

 

“I would ask you, to find me three young mages, inexperienced and unworldly, and allow me to be their harrowing,” he said. He knew that Magister Pavus had three apprentices he thought of highly. He would give them all up for his heir, though he would not be happy about it. In truth he had little interest in them, but it was better to let Magister Pavus let him think he had paid the true price, than to make him suspicious with a low one. “Then, when I have had my way with each one of them, take your babe out into the courtyard, beneath the birch tree, in the witching hour. Part the veil for me once more, and then I shall grant you your heir.”

 

“You, wish for my apprentices?” he asked, flabbergasted. He felt doubt and shock flit across his mind, but his hearts desire would not be denied. He knew that much.

 

“Three mage’s souls, for one heir. That is my price,” he said.

 

Magister Pavus steeled himself, and nodded, tapping his staff against the stones once more.

 

“Then you shall have it. Their harrowing’s shall be upon the morrow.”

 

“A pleasure doing business, Magister Pavus,” he said, bowing low, and smiled even as Magister Pavus banished him back to the fade.

 

He was giddy with anticipation, and he frolicked for what felt like an aeon of waiting, though he knew it was not. Time passed differently here than in the world above, it merely crawled because he perceived it to crawl, but that was no matter. The harrowing were coming, and then, then he was going to become a part of the world beyond the veil.

 

The first of the harrowings was something of a disappointment. The child was brash and arrogant, full of pride and unearned egotism. He needed to do little but taunt him a tad, tease him as he struggled through the fade. He played with it, twisting and morphing the fadescape around him until he was driven mad with frustration, and then dropped him into the lap of a pride demon he had gown fond of.

 

He would not call them friends exactly, neither he nor Pride really made friends, but they respected each other well enough, and with the bargain he had just struck he wanted to indulge his fellow demons desires while he still could. After all, the apprentice had desired power unrivalled, and Pride had desired a plaything. They would be quite happy with each other, even if their coexistence was doomed to be a short one.

 

The second harrowing was much more fun.

 

The apprentice was witty and silver tongued, and made a valiant attempt to charm his way out of his harrowing. But he could see through his veneer, and knew his hearts desires. He knew that the boy wanted nothing more than to run a dagger through his unguarded back, and had no doubt that he would the moment he turned it. He knew that the boy, too desired power, but not over magic. He played the great game, and desired political power over all those that sought to belittle him for his limited magical potential.

 

They danced for hours, playing his game of barbed words and loaded threats, and he whispered into his ear. Intrigue, and secrets he had learned from peering through the veil and stepping lightly through the dreams of mortal men.

 

He let the boy go, eventually. The boy had what he wanted, enough gossip and scandal to propel him up the social ladder, enough blackmail material to squirrel his way into the senate, and now his harrowing was through, he had the standing to sit in it, and start his work in earnest.

 

It was a satisfying harrowing, for all involved.

 

The third was an odd one. The girl was powerful, certainly. Not one to be trifled with lightly, and she desired much, and desired deeply.

 

She wanted power, power over others, no matter who they were, or what they had done. What she wanted to do with that power, he could not tell, he was not sure if she even knew. She just wanted. And when she confronted him in the fade, she decided she wanted him, too. It was a foolish thing, for a mage to want, but she thought herself superior to others. Thought herself above all weakness. She had the gall to bargain with him, offering to spare his life in exchange for him to kneel at her feet, and to serve her for a time. He shuddered in revulsion of such arrogance, such heedless desire, and played a cruel trick on her. He allowed himself to change, reflecting her desire, pretending to be a weak, mewling thing, and he scraped and cowered at her feet, feeding her desire til she was too bloated with fulfilment to see the trick. He opened the fade up around her, and let it swallow her whole, casting her down into the heart of the Fade, far from the veil.

 

If she could find a way out, she would have been welcome to have him. That was a fair bargain. But she could not find her way out.

 

The templar’s waited for two full days, before they killed her. Whether it was intended as a mercy, to end her slow death by hunger and thirst, or an act of impatience, he was not sure.

 

But his time was up, now. His waiting was over.

 

That night, he felt the Veil draw back, and he walked, freely, into the world beyond it.

 

Magister Pavus was dressed in a black cloak, the hood drawn down over his face. There were no slaves this time, there was no need for them. He had gone willingly, eagerly, and in the witching hour. The circle was but a gateway, now. It needed no power to draw him here. Neither did it hold any power over him now, though Magister Pavus did not know it. He took the man’s face again, dressed himself in Tevinter finery, and spoke in a soft voice.

 

“Give me the child,” he said, reaching out for the swaddled babe.

 

Magister Pavus balked, drawing back, and clutched the lifeless child close.

 

“Give me the child, and you shall have your heir, hale and hearty. That was our bargain,” he said, his voice low. He changed his face, his skin, becoming younger, more child like, till a vision of Dorian stood before the Magister, fourteen and in the prime of life, young and bright and healthy.

 

Magister Pavus gasped at the sighed, his hands trembled, his eyes wavered, but, eventually, he gave in.

 

He took the child in his arms, holding it tenderly. The poor thing. He could not comprehend a life so, empty. So void. Little Dorian did not deserve it. But, it was, for once, a chance for him to fufill his desire. His only true desire.

 

He wiped away the enchantments with the heel of his hand. The babes breathing slowed, then stopped, his heartbeat following, his skin already cooling in the night air.

 

He sat down on the grass, the body of the child on his lap. He bent, and kissed his brow.

 

“Thankyou, Little Dorian. You have made me very happy. I will strive, where ever you may be, to make you happy too,” he whispered. Little Dorian may have been alive, once, or he might not have. Either way, he felt he deserved thanks, if nothing else.

 

He had given him everything he’d ever wanted. He owed him this much, and he always honoured his bargains.

 

He smiled, and gathered the Fade around himself one more time, and reached into the babes empty mind. He dove in, deeper and deeper still, into the nooks and the crannies, giving more and more and more of himself, until he could feel his own body unravelling, and then pushed even more, expanding, and growing, filling the empty space with himself, till the empty space _became_ himself, and he, himself, became one with the empty space.

 

He became Dorian, and though he did not know it then, Dorian would become more than anything he had ever been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Internet. MBWLAYWGS is, really, really fighting me. I can’t even tell you why, the words just, wont come. It’s not writers block so much as it is, just, a lack of any fecking clue what the heck is going on. I decided to take a break from it and work on some other projects, things I hope might get published some day. It’s been a productive year for me, though you wouldn’t think it, with how quiet I’ve been online. I got inspired by some prompts on the kink meme, and decided to take a foray back into fanfiction for a bit. It’s been years since I’ve written any fanfic, though I still read it quite regularly. I hope I still have it. I hope you like it too. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and feel free to ask questions if you have any.


	2. The Breaking of Bread

The ground was cold beneath him, damp from dew and hard packed. His new limbs were heavy, his chest hurt, and he was _hungry_. He had known thought he had known hunger. He had seen it in the desires of mortal men, a simple transient thing, easily slaked, but to actually _feel_ hunger was altogether different. It writhed and thrashed and clawed inside of him, insistent and unshakable. He opened his mouth and wailed, crying long and loud at the mercy of the terrible unquenchable hunger that gnawed at his insides. He tried to reach out, but he was bound tight by the swaddling clothes, so he could only wriggle, rocking from side to side as he wailed.

 

Magister Pavus, no, his Father, he would have to become accustomed to calling him Father, scooped him up. His hands were trembling as he clutched him close to the warmth of his chest.

 

“Dorian, my Dorian? Please, don’t cry, my son, don’t cry. It will be alright now,” he gasped, his voice shaking with emotion.

 

He wailed louder, showing his pink gums, and then calmed slowly, willing the sensation always, just long enough to open his teary eyes and look up at his Father.

 

Halward was crying, but quietly, the tears flowed down his cheeks unchecked.

 

“Huh, hun-gee,” he whined. His tongue was oddly short and rounded, his mouth small and his lips would not make the shapes he wanted, but he managed to get at least part of his meaning across.

 

Halward gasped then, and bent over, his arms trembling, but clutching him close all the same, his tears flowing thick and fast now.

 

“Of course you are, my son, of course, it is well past dinner time. Let us go to the kitchens. The servants shall make you a fine feast. Polenta, your favourite, just for you,” he said, and hurried across the lawn.

 

Dorian scrunched up his nose. Little Dorian had been dead. He couldn’t have been alive long enough to have a favourite anything, let alone a food. And yet here he was ascribed with one anyway. He reached out again, peering into Fathers head, and found his desire there. Polenta had been a favourite of his, when he’d been a child. He wanted to share that with Dorian now. It soothed him, being the object of such a simple, pleasing desire. And he settled into the warmth of his Fathers arms, wiling away the terrible hunger. It was harder now, but he had spent aeons honing his will. He ought to be able to cope for just a little longer. He drew Halward’s simple desire around himself like a shield, and focused on fulfilling that desire. It was his purpose now.

 

Father roused the kitchens, and the servants all but leapt from their beds to obey his bidding, and, after he had been settled into a child’s chair at the dining table, a woman arrived.

 

He could sense her magic, drawn tight around her, coiled and ready to strike like a viper, and he could smell alcohol on her clothing. He brushed across her thoughts, and found her to be the wife of his Father, or, well, his Mother he supposed. He riffled through her desires, passing through the transient to find the deeper longings.

 

She wanted her husband to die. She wanted to be free of her loveless, childless marriage. She wanted to never have to suffer laying with her husband ever again.

 

Well then, he was happy to oblige her. His presence alone should excuse her of that.

 

“What is the meaning of this racket Halward, it is in the morning hours for the Maker’s sake,” she sighed, a servant hurrying to drape a morning coat around her shoulders.

 

“Hush, I will not have you speak to me that way, not in front of my son.”

 

“Your son? Halward we have no son! Why can’t you accept that, that,” she stuttered, staring at him as if noticing him for the first time.

 

“Halward, what have you done? What manner of magic has done this?”

 

Halward bristled, and raised his chin defiantly.

 

“I prayed to the maker for help, and the maker answered me. The ritual, it was a success, at last. Dorian, he is ours again,” he said, and turned, staring at Dorian with naught but unadulterated affection.

 

“If you think for a moment that I would believe that,” she sank to the table, trembling and shaking her head.

 

“You can believe what ever you will, it does not matter now. Dorian is hungry. Are you not, my son? His first dinner should be with his house about him,” he said, smiling.

 

“Hun-gee,” he agreed and clapped his hands together. Speaking was far more difficult than he had ever remembered it being, but no one else seemed terribly bothered by his lack of speech, so he had time to work it out.

 

His mother went bone white, and raised a trembling hand to her mouth.

 

Dorian frowned, and skimmed across her thoughts again. She wanted to believe he was real, really her son Dorian, but she did not. What a curious thing, to deny so simple a desire, but he could not blame her for it. She was wise to cling to her disbelief, though it made her dangerous, in her way. He would have to convince her. Make her believe. It would make her happy, and he had a suspicion that Little Dorian would want such a thing.

 

It changed when the food arrived. The servants placed a huge platter on the table, and on it, was an immense loaf of white bread. It was a round, flat loaf, dusted with flour, and scored from the centre outward, sectioning it into a number of triangular shapes. Beside it, the servants set out smaller cups filled with a dark liquid that smelled strongly of fish. There was a clattering, and slowly, more and more servants trickled in, bowing reverentially to Magister Pavus, then to his wife, and then to him, before standing at attention in a line against the wall.

 

He peered around curiously, and brushed against the minds of those gathered. Most were tired, and wished only to be done so that they might return to bed.

 

But, before he could puzzle out any deeper meaning, Halward stood, and clapped his hands for attention. All of the servants immediately straightened, their eyes and ears fixed upon him.

 

“Honoured house of Pavus, you have served faithfully and loyally for all these years. Tonight is a wondrous night. I have made a break through in my research, and my son, Dorian, has finally recovered from his terrible illness. Tonight, we shall break his first meal, as a household, as has been our custom since our house was founded in the reign of the glorious empire,” he clapped twice again, and sat down.

 

The servants scurried into action. Two servants lifted the platter, and carried it to Dorian, kneeling down and lifting the platter up to his level. Halward reached for the loaf, and broke it, tearing away two of the pieces, and dipping them into the fishy liquid. The servants then rose and paraded the loaf around the room, each person taking a hunk of bread. Once everyone had a hunk of bread in there hands, finally, Halward pinched a piece of bread away, and fed it to Dorian.

 

Eating was a little like ecstasy, he discovered. He had not expected it. Most mortals seemed so, dismissive of it, but the satiation, the taste, was extraordinary. Completely unlike any construction he had made in the Fade. It was, warm, and wholesome, and not only did it silence the writhing, wasting hunger, it filled him, satisfying him a way that was sensual but not at all sexual, which was strange in and of itself.

 

The rest of the house hold took that as a queue to eat there own bread, devouring the slices as quickly as they could. Halward merely took a bite out of his slice before setting both it and Dorian’s aside, and gestured for a servant to bring out the dish of sweet polenta he had requested, and began spoon feeding it to Dorian.

 

He forgot all about the odd little ritual then, and focussed all attention on the base pleasure of good, warm food, till he was bursting at the seams.

 

A servant picked him up, held him over one shoulder, and patted him, dislodging the gasses from his stomach, and his Father stroked his face fondly before kissing both his cheeks and leaving for bed. His Mother approached him, and stared down at him, her expression guarded and wary.

 

“Goodnight,” she said, curtly, and turned, her coat snapping out as she left the room.

 

He would work on her, make her believe. He just needed time.

 

The servant took him to a nursery. There was a child’s desk, and bookshelf, and a chest, likely filled with toys, but both were dusty from disuse. The cradle and washbasin seemed the only items to have received any regular use at all.

 

The servant bathed him, another unexpectedly pleasant sensation, wrapped him in fresh swaddling clothes, and set him down in the cradle.

 

“Sleep well, young master Pavus,” the servant whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

 

She puffed out the candles. There was a small spellwisp trapped under an enchanted bell glass, set upon the desk. It cast a soothing green glow about the room.

 

It was an odd thing, sleeping. He knew of it of course, he just had no idea how to go about doing it. He was not sure if he needed sleep, though he wanted to try anyway, given how pleasant food had been. He wriggled, making himself comfortable in the blankets, and shut his eyes for a time.

 

An hour passed, but nothing. He grew bored, and reached out skimming across the veil in search of stray desires or thoughts, and found a servant still awake.

 

No, she was not a servant, she was a slave. They all were. How odd that Halward did not simply address them as such. She was washing the dinner dishes and tidying the kitchen, but she was tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed. It was an odd sensation, tired. He had never felt it before. He focused on the sensation, turning it over in his mind.

 

Tired, how strange.

 

He felt strained, but not tired, not for sleep like the human slave did. Not even now. His body needed sleep, but, he did not, it seemed. How very odd. Slowly, though, he managed to ease his body into a meditative trance, the closest approximation to sleep he could manage, and let his mind wander as his body refreshed itself. He skimmed across the surface of the veil, probing at it curiously.

 

The veil was not fooled by his new human vessel. It would not let him cross, even if he was on the wrong side now. The Fade was beyond him, out of his reach, perhaps forever. Even if he could sleep, he certainly would not be able to dream.

 

A shame, he would miss the Fade. He did not just now, but he felt he might have liked to see it again some day. No matter. That day had not come yet.

 

He entertained himself til morning by skimming across the sleeping minds of the household. Their dreams were out of his reach now, but their thoughts were not, and he drank them eagerly, puzzling over the idiosyncrasies of humanity till sunlight flooded in through the windows.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you guys. It's a short one, but now things are established the ball will roll a little more smoothly from here on, at least it ought to for the next few chapters. I don't really know where the bread ritual came from. Originally, it was just going to be a short bit about Dorian discovering food, but then my brain went hey! Wouldn't it be cool to have some kind of coming of age ritual to honour the first meal? And then it just happened. It's a thing now. 
> 
> Also, I have a question I would like to address to AO3 at large. 
> 
> Ahem.
> 
> Holy shit! What even is this fandom?
> 
> Seriously, for two years I've been posting MBWLAYWGS here, and I averaged out at around 90 views per chapter, two or three kudos, and maybe a comment if I was lucky (aside from one awesome user who took the time to comment on every single chapter individually, they know who they are, and they are awesome) and that was great. I'm not being sarcastic, that made me really, really happy! I thought it was amazing that so many people liked my thing even when I was a jerk and didn't update for months, but this thing? Holy shit, it completely eclipsed MBWLAYWGS in the first twelve hours! What am I even supposed to say to that? This is just, wow. And furthermore, so many of the people who commented and bookmarked and left kudos, are people who I know! I'd read their fics before, seen them in the fandom sphere before, and seeing the people who's talent I knew and respected like my silly little 3000 word fic? I've in a happy daze all week. Seriously, fandom, thankyou!


	3. The Strength of Silence

Life as a mortal infant was strange, to say the least.

 

His body was small, unusually so. The measures Halward had gone to preserve its half-living state were far from perfect. As such his body was malnourished, his muscles ravaged by entropy, his stomached unused to solid foods and his every movement sluggish and clumsy. He lacked the strength or coordination to care for himself, or really do much of anything, so his first few months in the world beyond the veil were devoted to trying to get restore his frail vessel, and then learning and relearning how to use it as it healed and grew.

 

It worried him, at first, he was not sure if his vessel could still grow, but grow it did, and he began the slow march to recovery.

 

It was a simple existence, but a not an unpleasant one.

 

Those around him tended to desire very simple things. They wanted him to eat his vegetables, wanted him to sit up, lie down, to play, to make sounds, to stop making sounds, to stop fussing, to start crawling, and he was happy to oblige whenever he could. The nursemaids were pleasant, and their desires were a mine of information on mortal infants. A quick riffle through their shallower wants told him much of how he was expected to behave, what a human babe ought to be capable of, and he presented himself as they wished him to be: an intelligent, bright young child, recovering steadily from a prolonged wasting illness. No demons to be found here, no sir, none at all.

 

It was too soon for Aquinea to be soothed. She was still wary, and rightly so, but at least her desire to smother both her husband and child in their sleep had abated. She used to wish him dead whenever she set eye upon him, now she just wished she didn’t have to share a room with him. It was an improvement, at least, certainly better than being smothered in his crib while the household slept.

 

There were, of course, a bevy of new and pleasurable things, to be found in the world beyond the veil. Food was at the top of the list. It seemed there was an endless cornucopia of new tastes, textures, and scents to experience, and food combined the best of all three, no matter the form. Given his wasted body, he was urged to eat much, and quite frequently, eight or six small meals a day, in fact, to offset his shrunken stomach, which was absolutely fine with him. It was an experience like none other, and he doubted he would ever grow tired of food.

 

Sometimes, if he focused, he could tell things, about food, that none of the mortals could seem to sense.

 

Eggs sometimes remembered that they could have once become a chicken, might be a chicken still had they not been cooked. Fruits were cloying and sweet, a bribe, for others to take their children and scatter them far and wide, so that they might prosper. Meats sometimes remembered being part of a whole, of an animal. Prosciutto remembered the fires of the smoking house, the despair of the piggery, of knowing that death was near.

 

He tried not to look too deeply during mealtime. It spoiled things for him, but he had to eat anyway. His Father, Mother, nursemades all desired that he eat, so he ate, even when the pork tasted of despair. He’d learn to block it out soon enough.

 

His magic had been disrupted, also. He was quite the spellweaver, in the fade, but he was not in the fade any longer. With the veil in between him and his magic, he was rather unsure of what to do. The world did not shift when he bid it shift. While it was not a surprise, but it was still a little jarring. Too often did he reach out by instinct and ask the world to open a path for him, or for a piece of furniture to hop up and step aside, only to bump into it and remember that the world beyond the veil was not nearly as accommodating as the Fade was.

 

And the veil was there, interfering with his magic. He knew that the humans took their magic from the Fade, he could sense it, hear the old songs swelling about them as they cast, singing of that which could be, would be, and rushing to make it so, but when he reached for his magic the veil pushed back against him, tangling him up and getting in his way, spoiling his spells.

 

It didn’t help that he was still so small, so weak and clumsy, in a body that wouldn’t shift, couldn’t shift when he needed it to, wouldn’t do what he told it to.

 

The sleeping, or lack thereof, remained a persistent issue. His vessel was weak, and sustained activity made his muscles ache and throb from the strain, leaving his only recourse to lie down and rest for several hours. It was novel at first, but after a few days he became intensely bored. There were only so many hours he could ingest the same thoughts of chores and desires of food and sleep and freedom and not do anything about it. It was incredibly frustrating, to just lay down and wait for his clumsy little vessel to gather up its strength, all while the world was out there, wishing and wanting and desiring, and he couldn’t _do_ anything. There were pacts to be made, memories to be drunk, a world full of knowledge to sip from, and he was stuck in the same bloody crib, staring at the same bloody ceiling night after night after night.

 

He supposed his frustration, and his reluctance to sleep must have become apparent after a while, as one of his nursemaids took to sitting by his crib and plucking at a harp whenever he was laid down.

 

She was a skilled musician, her fingers quick and nimble across the strings of the humble wooden instrument. It was impeccably tuned, and the notes were soft and lilting. It soothed him, it was different, so very different, pale in the memory of the old songs that sang through the fade, singing of ages past and ages to come. But, for all that, it was special. Her aching desires, for good food, good rest, freedom, to see her family that had been sold so many years ago, they quieted when she played. When she was playing, she was a content creature, completely at peace in the moment and in her music, and her contentment made the strings sing with her memories of happiness, of sitting by her mothers knee, of caring to their halla’s beneath her fathers guidance, of wandering the world in with her clan, the proud halla leading them ever onward, of stories of glory lost, and glory to be regained.

 

It was a beautiful thing, to see such a content creature, such a whole being in this incomplete world, and he took comfort in that. He rested easier, with something to focus his attentions on, something that did not need any mending, and his vessel was better off for it.

 

It was slow work, this healing. So much waiting, so much time a wasting, but he knew that someday it would all be worth it. He was Dorian now, heir of house Pavus, son of Halward and Aquinea. He was real now, he mattered, and he fulfilled their desires, made them happy, made them proud. That was their bargain. And in return, he had much to gain, all the world beyond the veil was at his fingertips. He just needed to be patient, and wait for his vessel to heal and grow.

 

That did not mean, of course, that he was not taken by the odd desire to curse the daylights out of it all from time to time.

 

Halward was a duplicitous bastard. He’d known that going in, he would never have made it across the veil if he hadn’t been one. Admiring his machinations from the outside was one thing, it was quite another to be an unconsenting pawn of them.

 

He had begun arranging “showings” as soon as he had put on enough weight and performed enough exercise to be perceived as healthy. Internally he was anything but, but he looked chubby cheeked and flushed with health, and he had enough strength, and enough endurance to ambulate for a short while, though he had yet to quite manage the level of dexterity he was accustomed to. Honestly, it was not his fault that his vessel went and changed as soon as he was getting used to it, it was little wonder he had yet to master it.

 

Never the less, Halward had become very obnoxious in making his “appearances,” banding him about like he was a prize stallion open for the stud, which honestly wasn’t far from the truth of the matter.

 

After Little Dorian’s death, or half death, those in their social circles had quickly spread the rumour that Aquinea was barren, Halward impotent, and all manner of other vicious, if not entirely unfounded rumours surrounding their lack of fecundity. Halward was quick to compensate, and compensate hard, now that he had the means to do so. Usually by shoving his now miraculously healed son at anyone who had previously dared to question his manhood,  forcing them to eat their words with a veiled threat, and pleasant smile. It was rather amusing to watch them splutter, but it was a little worrisome to peer into their desires and see their plans for revenge, especially when so many of them involved hemlock in his milk, or scorpions beneath his pillow.

 

Few would ever dare put such plans into action, but there were some that might. It was honestly hard to tell in this vipers den that called itself a country. It had suited the Magisterium better, when house Pavus had been on its way to extinction. The Pavus holdings had already been divided up amongst the ruling classes, their influence taken into hand, their tomes and secrets squabbled for and won by subterfuge and intimidation. Now all their claims were null and void, all their work for nothing, and they did not like it. He was an unknown element. A free agent ricocheting about in a finely tuned machine, either he would be slotted neatly into place somewhere, and put to work, or he would be pulverized amongst the workings. He had played this game too long to do anything by halves.

 

So, he kept his hand clutched close to his chest, and continued to play his part as best he could, a gormless, innocent babe. It was dull, but it had its perks. He could crap and vomit on the people he didn’t like, a satisfying, if petty, form of revenge he had every intention of milking while he still could. It was ever so funny to watch their faces twist, and their heads fill up with disgust, only for them to have to soldier on as if it hadn’t happened lest they lose face.

 

On this, most recent occasion, Halward had secured service within the grounds of one of the most ancient and holy sites of worship in all of Minrathous, a feat in and of itself. He had campaigned long and hard for a place at the grand basilica, an ancient, sprawling complex that was built around a shrine, that in turn was rumoured to be built upon the very place where Andraste herself had burned, and where the black divine himself now worshiped, but had been denied. It had been a substantial blow to his pride, but it had been soothed by securing a place here, at the temple to Hessrian, the first divine. The temple itself was an ancient edifice, older than the Chantry itself, perhaps even older than Andraste, though any evidence of it’s prior dedications had been scrubbed clean away. It was a circular building built of fine rose marble, and adorned with ivory white columns. Its domed roof was capped with copper that must have shone like fire in the daylight in it’s day, but had long since turned green with age. It was cool and dark within, preventing him from seeing the true character of the building, pressed into Halward’s arms as he was. The only source of light was from the oculus in the roof that permitted a single beam of sunlight. It illuminated a great sparkling mosaic upon the floor, a sea of twisting geometric patterns in marble and quartz.

 

Halward had invited everyone of standing, a show of status and power no doubt, and the guests rose to the challenge. The Magisters and Alti dressed in their finest, silks and furs dripping with more gemstones than dewdrops on a spring blossom, and wrapped themselves in adornments of bronze, ivory and gold. Each came bearing a retinue of slaves, who scurried about in their shadows, eyes downcast and their hands clenched behind their backs, but each ready to leap to their masters bidding with the wave of a hand, or a snap of their fingers.

 

Such fuss and bother over such a little baby. Honestly, nobody was here because they actually wanted to be here, because they actually cared about the event, more than half would be better off had his vessel perished from the start. No, they were here to peacock, to show of their wealth and status, and measure their mettle against that of Halward Pavus, the most ostentatious, duplicitous peacock of them all. Such a clumsy power play. He’d seen better. He’d done better. Honestly, it would be more entertaining if they just did away with their excuses, and got to sizing each other up properly, in a battle of wills. At least that would be entertaining.

 

Alas, he was but a gormless babe, so he could do nothing about the boring state of affairs, as he was passed about and shown off, as magisters shoved their fingers beneath his chin and his armpits, pretending to tickle him in a transparent attempt to gauge his health. Some guests even went out of their way to try and make him cry, pinching him and flashing magelight in his eyes when Halward was not looking. It was pathetic really, to think that they could gain an advantage by making an infant cry at an inopportune time. Infants cried _all_ of the time, and life went on.

 

But, the morning passes on, and that single beam of light tracked across the floor, till it struck the centre stone, illuminating the golden sunburst symbol of the Chantry, a later addition, no doubt, and that, apparently, was what they had been waiting for, and as the sunbeam drew nearer and nearer, the chatter hushed, and the folk settled. There were no benches to sit upon, but there were tiers set into the stone, and the congregation arranged themselves into neat concentric circles with only a little jostling.

 

There was silence, for a few, weighty moments, as the sunbeam slowly reached its noon zenith, the light shining upon the gilded sun. In the distance, the noonbells tolled, and, with a collective intake of breath, the doors opened, and the procession began.

 

The brothers were dressed in black and crimson, and they bore implements of bloodwood and gold. First came a pair of censer bearers, the cloying scent of myrrh filling the room, the smoke twisting in the light, rising toward the oculus above, next came a pair of bell ringers, then, a pair of younger maidens, one carrying a candle atop an ebony stave, another a book bound in black, scaled leather, and after them, finally was the grand Cleric Thaddeus himself, clad in crimson and gold, his staff in his hand, the head topped with a ruby red serpent. They chanted, their voiced low and booming, at counterpoint to the bells, as the procession split, circling around the centre symbol, with the exception of the cleric, who stepped upon it and into the sunbeam, the harsh light casting him in a stark silhouette, his face in shadow, and his gilded vestments gleaming.

 

The maiden bearing the book approached, genuflecting before him and offered up the tome. He opened it to a premarked page, and began to recite from the pages in a booming voice that echoed up to the oculus and beyond.

 

“Lady of Perpetual Victory, your praises I sing!  
Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable  
Of your glory! Let me be the vessel  
Which bears the Light of your promise  
To the world expectant.  
  
The air itself rent asunder,  
Spilling light unearthly from the  
Waters of the Fade,  
Opening as an eye to look  
Upon the Realm of Opposition  
In dire judgment.  
  
And in that baleful eye I saw  
The Lady of Sorrow, armoured in Light,  
Holding in her left hand the scepter  
Of Redemption. She descended  
From on high, and a great voice  
Thundered from the top of every  
Mountain and pinnacle across creation:  
  
All heads bow! All knees bend! Every being in the Realm Of Opposition pay homage, for the Maker of All Things returns to you!"

 

His voice ebbed and swelled like the tide, and Dorian could not help but respect the man for the sheer power his presence commanded. He was a skilled orator, and even the most distracted minds were rapt in his presence. The congregation stooped, slave and master alike bowling to one knee and ducking their heads for a long minute, even Halward, who held him in his arms. They stayed, bent in genuflection, and he could hear the whispered mutterings of prayer. Aquinea knelt beside them, her head respectfully bowed, but her lips were a thin line, and he did not need to peer into her thoughts to know that she wished not to be here.

 

Dorian was struck then, by the immense power that silence held. He had known other demons, lesser demons that would have slaughtered for this kind of power, this kind of presence. With a few uttered words the magisters had fallen to their knees, unbidden, completely ignorant that there was a demon such as he hiding amongst them. Were he in his true form, he could kill them with naught but a gesture. If Aquinea spoke out, with but a few words to the right people and he would by lying dead upon the floor in moments. But they both held their silence, and they both kept their necks intact.

 

He did not like to be reminded that his existence was such a tenuous one, even now, but it was an important revelation, and he held it close, all the same.

 

The worshipers rose after a few moments more, and the ceremonies continued, progressing from recitations to sermons, until, at last, the Pavus were asked to rise, and step forward into the light.

 

Dorian almost did cry then, the noon sun was intense, and after so long in the cool, dim light of the stands, it burned his eyes with its intensity.

 

The clerics entourage began to chant again, the bells clanging, and a new procession begun to file in, bearing a flasks of perfumed holy oils, and a carved box upon a tray.

 

He knew what that box bore. He was to be awarded with his Bulla, a powerful talisman meant to protect mage children from demons, bloodmagic and other foul influences. It ought to have been awarded to Little Dorian within the first few days of his birth, but, for a Magister of Halward’s standing to do such a thing without pomp and circumstance would be to admit weakness, and fault in the infant, which would be a scandal in and off itself. So he had delayed and delayed and delayed until now.

 

Of course, it was too late _now_. But Halward didn’t know that.

 

He had seen the Bulla before, as the chain had been fitted. It was a teardrop of amber, red as fire and as large as a plump grape, set in a latticed golden shell that was inscribed with glyphs, sigils and verses of the Andrastian chant. Floating in the heart of the amber droplet was a tiny tuft of down, suspended in perpetual freefall. It was a beautiful thing, though, it had not been properly enchanted then, and though he had confidence that there were no such wards could keep out one who was already entrenched such as he, with the power of that silence at the forefront of his mind, he doubted, and he feared.

 

The chanting was low and droning now, their voices rising in echoing layers and counterpoints he was far too flustered to appreciate.

 

The High Cleric preached, uttering ritual phrases in ancient tevene. He dipped his thumb first in sweet smelling oil, anointing his forehead, and then his palms, and then again in a fine grey ash they clung to the oil, sticking to his skin like ill mixed cement.

 

He whined then, wriggling in Halward’s arms. He was not yet accustomed to controlling his form, and though he knew it to be foolish he could not help but show his distress.

 

Halward squeezed him close, and hushed, low, stroking his free thumb over his temple to soothe him. Aquinea merely wrinkled her nose at him.

 

The cleric turned, and lifted the lid of the box. The Bulla nestled within on a bed of black silk, and it hummed with power. Dorian could hear it, hear the thrumming of its verse above the chanters. He struggled a moment, managed at last to still himself, breathing deeply. He had come to far to be turned back now. He would not be afraid and he would _not_ lose his composure. That would achieve _nothing_. If he was to die, it would be with dignity and poise, not gormless squealing.

 

The Cleric raised it up toward the sun, it did not catch the light so much as it became the light, the sunlight illuminating it and made it shine like a flame. And then it descended, that falling tuft racing up toward him as it was fitted around his neck, the Cleric pressing his the serpentine mouth of his staff to the jewel to activate the enchantments.

 

Dorian almost screamed, almost, as the wards flared to life, their hum peaking as the surrounded him, engulfed him, and then, nothing. The wards did not react, did not burn or scald or electrify. They surrounded him a protective cushion, of humming, singing magic, just as they were meant to. He calmed, relaxing in Halward’s grip, even as the Cleric continued his preaching.

 

What power silence had. Power to conceal certainly, but also power to corrupt. He had feared but, for what? For this paltry thing? It had not been worthy of it to begin with, and he'd known that.

 

He looked up to the sky through the oculus. The sun had moved past noonday, well into afternoon now, and clouds were gathering. He would not fear anymore, not silence at least. It was his weapon to be wielded, his trump card to play. He would remember that, now. He would, however, keep the lesson close.

 

He had a feeling he would need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That bit of the chant is called Exaltations 1, and is the property of bioware in its entirety. The church mentioned in this is based very heavily on the pantheon in Rome. It's a beautiful building with a fascinating history, and I really think you should give it a google. This is also the last major bit of religious content, so if you hate it, have no fear, this should be it for a while, at least so far as the sledgehammer stuff is concerned. After this, I'm going to be lengthening the time skips fair bit, though I haven't got them completely ironed out yet, but I would like to get into the inquisition some time this year, so they will happen.
> 
> I'd also like to give a great big thankyou to everyone who left kudos and comments. Every one of them makes my day,and I'm so glad you all liked it. I'd also like to apologise for this one being a little late in coming, and a little rougher than I'd like. I actually had this drafted up earlier, but I promised myself I would get out a chapter of MBWLAYWGS before the new year, because I'd been neglecting it for far too long now. I ran a month over that deadline, but I finally managed to get that sucker done, though I'm honestly still feeling pretty burned out by that terrible chapter. But, hey, at least it's done now, and I can get back to writing more cooperative chapters, for RORI and MBWLAYWGS both. I hope you like it, guys.


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